Days Gone By - stories from the past

Amazing true account by a child who lived on a plantation during Civil War Days


(Please note – this was written many years ago about Civil War days – Many parts may be offensive today readers today, but it does provide a personal history and perspective from a child living during those days)

Clemmie Parker Wilcox (1858-1955)

Butler, Alabama


“Tell us about when you were little” was the oft repeated request of two lovely wee girls, my grandchildren and now comes the request that I put it down in writing. Viewed from their own childhood of peace and plenty mine seemed a strange one.

Impressed by mother’s courage

Looking backward to that long ago childhood, the thing that impresses me most was the undaunted courage of my mother. My father, Dr. Reden Nauflet Parker, was a surgeon in the Confederate Army and her four brothers were in the same army. She was left with two little children to care for and get along as best she could. No man to shield and protect her.

In these “Piping Times of Peace” when the Yankees are welcome to our sunny southern climate it seems almost unreal with what dread, “The Yankees are coming” once filled our hearts. The Yankees came and were soon opening trunks, dresser drawers, everything searching for valuables. They did not find any, for several nights before and alone, my mother had gone secretly and dug a hole in the henhouse, where she buried what little gold and silver money she had left, her jewelry and silver tableware. She pulled a box in which a hen was sitting over this place so that the newly upturned dirt would not be noticed. That hen sat undisturbed over the gold and silver mine, and I’ve heard my mother say was the only one she had left when the Yankees were gone.

I loved pets

I always loved pets — dogs, cats, birds, a motherless kid, a cripple chicken. At this time I had a most unusual one, a pig whose mother had died. With the help of Amies, my faithful attendant, I fed this pig with scraps from the table. It became a fat shote and followed me about as a dog, or “Mary’s Little Lamb,” much to the annoyance of my Mother. I suppose in the excitement of the evening, Bettie my pig was forgotten. We slept in our clothes that night. At least I did, I don’t suppose my Mother slept.

Never occurred to me they would kill my pig

Early next morning I missed my pig. She could not be found. I went about calling her until one of the Negroes said, “I ‘spect them Yankees done got yo’ pig.” There was an encampment just back of our garden. It never occurred to me that the Yankees would kill my pretty fat pet pig. So I marched off, and invaded that Yankee Camp unafraid — a small girl between four and five years old, re-enforced in the rear — considerably in the rear — by a Negro girl Annes, about thirteen. I demanded my pig. I had marched upon a camp of officers, for I have a vague memory of eppaletes upon the shoulders of a tall man who got up, came to me and said, “Little girl we haven’t got your pig.” He must have seen the distress in my face. Perhaps there was the thought of a little girl in a far northern state.

Why I would not kiss a Yankee!

Anyway he picked me up in his arms and said, “Won’t you kiss me?” My reply came quickly, “Why I would not kiss a Yankee!” How those men laughed and how quickly one small rebel retreated vanquished by a laugh! Children do hate to be laughed at when serious. My Mother was greatly concerned when she found I had gone adventuring into a Yankee Camp and I’m afraid she scolded Annes.

Annes bought me chicken

I suppose when my Mother could no longer stand the loneliness — my little sister had died — she went to either my Father’s mother or her own mother. It was at the home of my Father’s mother that I vaguely remember an attack of scarlet fever. About the only thing I remember was a piece of fried chicken, a drumstick brought to me, I suppose by Annes.

I do not know why I was left alone with Annes, nor how she got the drumstick, whether she slipped it from the kitchen or whether it was the choice portion of her own dinner. In these days of child specialists and careful diets, it seems strange that a child seriously sick should have been given fried chicken even by a Negro. Fortunately my throat was too sore for me to eat it when I tried. My mother or my grandmother came in and Annes and the drumstick were sent away.

After I had fully recovered we went to the home of my Mother’s mother. There were no disinfectants in the South at that time save sunshine and hot water. My advent into this grandmother’s home was followed by an outbreak of scarlet fever. They said it was carried in my woolen clothing. One little Negro girl whose mother was dead and who was being brought up in the house by my aunts, died. I felt very sad looking at Viney on her little white bed, and in a way responsible for her death.

I suppose there must have been a scarcity of food in those days when the war was nearing a close. I do not remember, but I am sure there could have been no well balanced rations.

Even as a child I felt the gloom that was taking the place of enthusiasm. One of my uncles was dead, another wounded and one a prisoner. It was a common thing to see men with an arm or a leg missing and I remember only too well one man who hobbled about on stumps of legs, both having been removed above his knees.

I had bright hopes for Christmas

Christmas Eve came and bright hopes with it. Although my Mother and young aunt tried to impress me with the fact that there would be nothing. I still believed in Santa Claus, and even after any experience, with the pet pig, I did not believe that the Yankees would kill Santa Claus, and that someway those reindeer would get him by the Yankees. So I hung my stocking by the fireplace, I suppose my Mother and aunt thought that the hurt of the little home knit stocking hanging limp and empty would be too much.

They called upon their utmost resources and I found it full on Christmas morning — molasses, peanut candy, ginger cakes, parched peanuts and right in the toe a beautifully painted egg. The latter having been beautified from a box of water colors, left from other days. How happy I was! Going out in the yard I called across the way to another little girl all the wonderful things I had received. Annes said, “I wouldn’t be hollering about ’em if I was you, sounds like you are so proud of ’em.” Poor ‘Annes! She could remember other Christmas mornings when molasses candy, gingercake and a hardboiled egg were not things to be proud of. How careful those Negroes were of us. How we must “mind our manners,” but what little snobs they tried to make us. “You is quality”. How often the Negroes used that word “quality” in just that way.

Heard the word surrender for the first time

Time passed. One spring morning I had started to school when my Father (You will not I wrote Father and Mother with capital letters. I assure you that is correct. They were due capitals) said, “Do not go to school today.” He was talking to several men and I heard the word “surrender” for the first time. I wanted to know what it was all about, and learned the war was over. I could not understand the looks of sadness, for it seemed to me that they should be rejoicing. I do not know why my father was at home, whether on leave of absence, or because doctors at home as well as in the army were needed, for besides the women and children and Negroes there were now many disabled men.

I was soon to understand the sadness for in a short time Annes left us, persuaded away, my Mother said, but nothing could soften the blow! I was bewildered, how was I to get on without Annes! I think she went to another town.

How I was glad to see Annes

After a year, perhaps longer, she came back to see us and brought me a beautiful toy and a rather unusual one. It was an angel holding a baby in outstretched arms, swaying by elastic, a flying motion was produced. How I loved it and how glad I was to see Annes! But she did not seem the same. She looked tired and rather grown up and I missed her ever-ready laugh. After this Annes passed out of my life. I did not see her again but I believe that somewhere in some way she is an angel now.

After Annes left us another girl, Alice,was brought into the house. How glad she was to come and how hard she tried, but she was awkward,not trained as Annes was. I did not like to have her help me dress or comb my hair so I decided to get on without a personal maid. I have never had, nor wanted one since.

There did not seem much for Alice to do so she devoted herself to my baby brother. Devoted is the right word. I have never known greater love shown to a child not one’s own.

My Father paid wages

Of course my Father began to pay wages to those of our Negroes who remained with us. When pay day came for Alice she would go gaily off to town and invest all of her money in toys and sweets for my little brother. My Father had always provided her with clothes and she saw no reason why he should not continue to do so. Alice never left us until after my Father’s death and we were moving to another town, and she married.

There is another one of our Negroes outstanding in my memory, Marshal. He must have been about 40 years old when my Mother inherited him from her father’s estate. Marshal was far above the average Negro in intelligence and a skilled workman.

I had a table for teaparties

I had a little table for my doll teaparties that he made for my mother and her little sister- when they were children on their old plantation home near Columbus, Miss. This little table was so substantially made and so well put together that now, nearly ninety years old and serving for tea parties of four successive generations of little girls it is enameled in blue(?) a thing of beauty giving pleasure to my little granddaughter, a child of three.

I never remember seeing a surly look on Marshal’s face nor hearing an unkind word from him. How I loved to play about where he was, though I must have often been in his way, gathering little blocks for my playhouse or the long furling shavings that fell from his plane. (Plane may mean to you a wonderful machine flying in the air, but I refer to a tool with which carpenters dressed or smoothed rough lumber.

Marshall brought me a cage for my bird

After Marshall was free, I met him one day and, being happy over a new bird, asked him to make me a cage for it. In a short time he brought me a beautifully finished bird cage. How happy he seemed over my pleasure.

One night, I think about two years after the surrender, I was waked by my mother and told to get up and dress. My little brother was also taken up and dressed. When I asked why, my Mother, not letting the fright she must have felt show, replied, “We may go somewhere.” After awhile I went back to bed fully clothed, even to shoes. The next day I learned from some source that there was a threatened uprising of the Negroes against the whites and that Marshal was the leader. Our Marshal!

Marshal who was always so kind, who had made the little table for my mother in her childhood and the bird cage for me. I could not understand, nor do I to this day. I do not know how it was all settled but somehow Marshal did not seem the same. He did not come to see us so often, always kind and wanting to help, but not the same.

Mother moved to town

After my Father’s death, my Mother, wishing to be near her brothers, decided to move to another town. Marshal came to pack and crate the furniture for shipment, refusing the pay my Mother offered. He was at the depot to say good bye to his white folks. Years afterwards we read or heard he was killed resisting arrest. My Mother was grieved and said, “He was one of the most trusted Negroes my Father had.”

My Father never bought or sold a Negro. The ones we owned came to us from the estate of his father or my Mother’s father, and I believe to a certain extent the Negroes were given some choice as to which one of “Old Marster’s” children they went to. I never saw my father whip a Negro but once. Mose, a boy whose duty it was to care for his saddle horse had not fed the horse.

My Father asked, “Did you feed my horse?’

“Yes, sir. I sho did.”

“How did you feed it when I have the key to the crib?”

“I jumped up and got corn out of a crack.”

“Let me see how high you can jump Mose.” So taking his riding whip he gave Mose a few licks on his feet, making him jump. It seemed to be somewhat of a frolic to my Father and to Mose, but Mose was warned that the horse must be fed and no more lies told.

The slaves as I knew them were a happy, healthy people, laughing and singing. I especially remember the singing as they went about their work, out of doors. I believe they did not think it “manners” to sing in the house, but coming home from their day’s work in the fields, how strong and sweet their voices were raised in song.

My childhood passed quickly away. When fourteen years old I went off to boarding school and was no longer “little”. So as you only, wished to know about when I was “little,” this is all.

(This was written when Mama was about 75 years old. She lived to be 97.)

Josie Bell Wilcox Thrash, B.S. Livingston University, sending an essay written by my mother, Clemmie Parker Wilcox. She was born Aug. 10, 1858, Butler, Alabama, m. William Dade Wilcox Jan. 16, 1884, died Sept. 23, 1955, Butler, Alabama. Her diploma was from Varona Female College, Varona, Miss., June 23, 1875.

Her father was Dr. Reden Nauflet Parker who had a drug store where Tillman Wright’s Drug Store is now and he was a partner of Dr. Edward Moody when my mother was born. When Clemmie was 1 year old, the family moved to Enterprise, Miss. Thus, the recollections of Yankee troops. As a young woman she visited relatives in Butler, met and married Mr. Wilcox, and lived there the rest of her long life.

(transcribed from Alokoli : the Choctaw County bicentennial book)

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About Donna R Causey

Donna R. Causey, resident of Alabama, was a teacher in the public school system for twenty years. When she retired, Donna found time to focus on her lifetime passion for historical writing. She developed the websites www.alabamapioneers and All her books can be purchased at and Barnes & Noble. She has authored numerous genealogy books. RIBBON OF LOVE: A Novel Of Colonial America (TAPESTRY OF LOVE) is her first novel in the Tapestry of Love about her family where she uses actual characters, facts, dates and places to create a story about life as it might have happened in colonial Virginia. Faith and Courage: Tapestry of Love (Volume 2) is the second book and the third FreeHearts: A Novel of Colonial America (Book 3 in the Tapestry of Love Series) Discordance: The Cottinghams (Volume 1) is the continuation of the story. . For a complete list of books, visit Donna R Causey

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  1. FYI: Butler, AL is not in Butler county (in reference to Butler county courthouse picture in the article). Easy mistake!

  2. Great piece of history……how quick we Southerners forget

  3. As has been mentioned earlier by a commenter, Butler, Alabama is NOT in Butler County. It is in and is the county seat of Choctaw County, Alabama. With that having been said, I pose the question is this story from Butler, Alabama or from somewhere in Butler County?

    1. Thank you for the correction.

    2. This is a story told by my grandmother. She lived in Butler which is in Choctaw County, Ala only after she grew up. He childhood was spent in Mississippi.

      1. In the 90’s I heard a story from an older black man about his Grandmother near Red Bay, AL (I think). She was about12 when the Yankees were coming and the “Master” had all the slaves take the valuables (gold, silver), bag them from the house and bury them near the shotgun slave quarters. They dug a hole where they dumped ashes from the stoves and covered it up with the ashes.
        She was so frightened of the reputation of the soldiers that she actually forgot.
        Then in the early 30’s she remembered. She was sitting on what remained of some steps and the tree near the ashes was huge now. She told her son that she remembered people burying something next to that tree and when she told about the circumstances, they dug up the things. They sold them and bought the farm and the grandson now farms over two hundred acres. This was told to me in the presence of a business man I was visiting there. Mr. David Sibley (now deceased). I absolutely believe it to be true. My thought at the time was “Pay Day Someday” the old sermon of preacher R.G. Lee.

  4. Parker is my maiden name. (interesting!)

  5. Excellent! George Dennis Andrews

    1. Excellent, a window into another time. ‘The Yankees are coming”. I am still outraged that women and children were terrorized by this rabble from the north. Lee never allowed his troops to loot and burn in Penn. , even though the payback would have been warranted.

  6. History is never offensive….get over it…’s the truth….a person’s perception is a judgmental call on a personal level…duh

    1. It’s only offensive when it repeats.

    2. YOU are offensive when you disagree with someone and have a snide remark like “Duh”. Whatever happened to young people with manners and respect? Because someone does not agree with you does not mean they are dumb. By your photo, you’re too old now to teach manners and respect for others. Sad.

  7. Thank you for sharing a historical view from the eyes of a woman from her own childhood.

  8. I really enjoyed reading this.I am saddened that you have to preface this.I have read several slave narratives and it’s all just personal accounts of history of the times.

  9. Enjoyed this so much. We are kin to the Parkers and lived 20miles from Columbus,Ms.

  10. Very interesting account of her childhood. Love this kind of stories.

  11. What a wonderful read!

  12. Interesting account from the perspective of a young girl. Thank you for sharing.

  13. Very interesting story. Loved reading it.

  14. Thank you for sharing.

  15. Thank you for the story, love history.

  16. Great story of days from the past. I hope we in modern days do not have to go through anything like that!

  17. I love all of your Alabama stories. I have never lived in Alabama, but loved visiting your beautiful state where my daughter and all of her children and grandchildren live. Thank you for sharing. Hazel Hill

  18. True_Lincoln +His Yankee’s were about-like ISIS is to-day In Far-East or Boston….( any-thing go’s our Police Officers not aloud too Stop-This. ) Some-thing wrong in this Picture.

  19. An insight into a time long ago. It is wonderful to gain such views from another time but always with caution since it can be misleading in it’s truth. I can understand the incongruity of trying to make the slaves seem as happy folk loving to serve and never bemoaning their dire existence. I can even accept that perhaps on this little plantation property they were as well treated as they could be treated. But, it remains they were owned body and soul and it was not legal for them to go about the county unescorted and had not the freedom to travel at all. We Southerners love to think on those days as halcyon and carefree but that is not the true history and we must never forget that or allow others to portray it as anything other than the merciless life that it was then. Slave owners were by and large very wealthy for their day and gained all of that wealth from the unpaid labor these slaves were forced to perform. Slavery is an abomination and it must always be noted.
    Of course this woman that was a young child at the time of these memories could not have changed any of that but when she wrote the piece later in life she should have made a point of noting that they were owned whether her father bought them or inherited them they were property plain and simple.
    I dare say if this article were of white Christian folk made slaves to Boko Haram today it would not be looked upon so benevolently. And rightly so.

    1. Your comparison of White Southern planters (and slaveholders) to Boko Haram is a bit of overreach…and Simon Legree was an anomaly in that period. Slaves were always a valuable investment. However, we all realize that it was not banjos and magnolias and nobody wants to pretend that is so. Thank you for your otherwise thoughtful comments.

  20. Great story. Nicely told.

  21. Great site….please don’t apologize for the truth in history. Please!

  22. The reason I include a preface is because this website reaches people all over the world and everyone does not have the same background or perspective as we do in America. Some people may not understand that this story was written many years ago and I wanted to make that clear.

    1. Washington DC the head of-snake have went along with hand-full of group’s….Bible out school’s….Now the individual property is being destroyed and Police Officer;s not aloud too stop-this.We need leader’s not thug’s in DC going along with this behavior.

      1. So, what I am hearing you say is it would be acceptable or rather even so far as preferred that religion be forced on all children in schools. I take it then that you agree that the madrassas of Pakistan are the preferred schools for the young Muslims? That one should be forced at a young age to profess your undying loyalty to ONE religion without being educated in the sciences or literature? Oh what a horrible world you must want for your grandchildren. One in which failure to follow the “law of god” as interpreted by the ruling class would subject a person to punishments not seen in 600 years outside of the Middle East. That a woman raped is to be a woman stoned to death for daring to entice a man to rape her. A child put to the whip for not bowing when a priest walks the path along which the child plays. These were the types of things that the first Europeans that came to this land were running from so they might be able to live FREE of the tyranny of religious LAW. They knew that FREE and PLENTIFUL EDUCATION was the salvation of their children and they employed every moment to assuring that it came to pass. Moses was not a Founding Father, Ben Franklin was though.

      2. You really need to learn the difference between plural and possessive.

  23. looks like a house my mama and 7 brother and sisters lived in at the bottom of Needem’s Hill.Randolph County,Al.

  24. my grandfather was a young boy during the civil war his older brothers fought for the south….he told my mother stories of how he and his friends would throw rocks at the yankee soldiers ….his family at the time lived in georgia they later moved to alabama


  26. I wish I knew the story of my 2 great grandmother, my 2nd great grandfather died in the war, leaving her with 7 children, 5 under 12, one being my great grandfather. I have looked for her on census, but can not locate her until 1910 where she was living with her youngest daughter. She also died in 1910, and is buried with some of my other relatives. But I think of her all the time and what she must have gone through. What a treasure this story is for their family!

  27. I really enjoyed this story. I hate that the truth may be found offensive by some.

  28. i would live here RIGHT NOW.

  29. I’ve heard stories in my area when word got around that the Yankees were coming people buried their valuables to keep the Yankees from robbing them. Enjoyed the story.

  30. That was an Awesome account of this young girls life. I could actually see in my head all that happening. Thanks for sharing.

  31. This was very interesting. Sure did enjoy reading it!

  32. Civil War times through a childs eyes is interesting with some of her side lights of personal life of her era.

    My family history: they put food in a grave yard to keep from those troops looking for food

  33. I so enjoyed this story from our past.
    Please keep them coming.

  34. I would live there right now

  35. Having read Mrs. Parker’s story, I would like to share a little of the childhood story of another child of that time..
    The story I tell begins with a slave woman, the cook for her master’s family. She was forbidden to give even the smallest bit of the delicious dishes she prepared to her very young daughter who played in the kitchen while her mother worked.
    After being warned, the slave woman was discovered giving a little of her master’s plentiful food to her child. Her punishment was a horrible, bloody beating (it is not known if she survived the bludgeoning). But that was not all. Her little girl was sold so far away that the two never saw each other again. The child was so young she only knew her mother’s name as Mama.
    During the years of her enslavement, until the war ended in 1865, the girl was sold five times, always to cruel masters. She learned to fear the white faces of the men who beat and raped her. The beatings left deep, painful scars in her thighs that brought her misery all of her life.. She cried “Mama!” but her mother never came. She forgot how to smile. Her face remained solumn even when freedom came at the end of the war.
    I am the great granddaughter of that little girl sold from her mother so many years ago. I marched with Martin Luther King, Jr., in 1963. Because America has grown since its beginnings, I am educated, able to vote, free in body and mind. For many years, I have been a motivational speaker promoting racial harmony in various parts of the country..
    I am now 82 years old, and no Pollyanna. I am aware that recent headlines have been discoraging, Setbacks happen, and prejudice, like a living thing, struggles to remain, capable of warping the understanding of souls of any color. But I have seen the glory of the Lord in this nation, and I continue to believe.
    My grandmother used to say, “God moves in mysterious ways.” This nation has been destined by God to live up to its ideal words, many of which were originally addressed only to white males with property, but now speak to all of us.
    I believed in America when I marched in Washington, D. C., in 1963, as one of 250,000 black Americans (there were also some whites in the march). Led by Martin Luther King, Jr., the objective of the march was “jobs and freedom.” indiscriminately. If I had not believed that change was possible, I would not have marched. I still believe in America.
    The story of Clemmie and the story of my great grandmother’s childhood are the benchmarks against which I measure the progress of the nation to date. The child, Clemmie, thought her slaves, whom she loved, were happy in their condition, and could not understand Marshal’s leading a protest after he was free. He was protesting the wretchedness of discrimination. Nor did Clemmie understand the haggard faces of the former slaves when they were free. She thought it was evidence that they were better off as slaves.
    Freedom is life’s most precious of human conditions. No free person would exchange that freedom, however difficult, for the chains of slavery. Slaves, no matter how well their masters believed they were treated, still longed to be free to seek their own destinies, even in hardship. These are the stories that came down to me from my ancesters — the same desire for freedom that made the nations founders pull up roots and cross an ocean. This I know from the verbal histories I heard as a child from the descendants of slaves such as my grandmother, experiences they would not share with white people. But at last, our tongues are loosed and we speak, because America has progressed from those days.
    Slavery was very damaging to black people, reducing their self-esteem. It also damaged white people, giving them a false sense of superiority that Clemmie expresses when she compliments Marshal’s intelligence and talent not as a person but as a Negro. Clemmie the child could not be expected to know that human intelligence and human stupidity are not affected by or limited to any skin color or our arbitrary designations of race. Marshal’s enslavement prevented her from knowing him simply as another human. The core of who he was remained hidden, as it had to be under the institution of bondage. I hopw my great grandmother’s story helps to remove residual separatist attitudes that may remain as barriers to understanding.
    According to the Holy Bible, sins of the fathers are visited to the fourth generation. We have been generations healing from the sin of slavery, both those of us who are black and those of us who are white. But we have been healing, and I for one will work for the continuing healing of our nation in every way I can.
    One person commented that God had been taken from our schools. I disagree. Within our pledge of allegiance are the inspiring words, “one nation under God,” and “liberty and justice for all.” These are righteous words, for they guide us toward what is right. .
    In some nations, children are not allowed to worship in any way except that decided by the state. We American parents are free to teach our children of God with no government interference.
    When I was a highschool girl, I took the Bible to school every day and read it in my free time. No one opposed me.
    The freedom worship however I individually choose, and even not to worship if I so choose, is the most precious freedom afforded to all Americans.

    1. An eloquent response.

  36. Hi there to all, the contents present at this site are actually amazing
    for people knowledge, well, keep up the good work fellows.

  37. Yep what we need….mire $##% stirring

  38. Thank you, a little glimpse into history is always an eye opener.

  39. Another great book to read is by my 3rd cousin 4x removed, Letitia McCrery Burwell:

  40. I love these beautiful stories.

  41. A very interesting account.

  42. Love those old stories of history

  43. reminds me of my grandparents place in rock springs, al

  44. Love this story, woukd like to read more!

  45. Very interesting, thank you

  46. Hi,
    The author of this story was my great grandmother, Mama Cox, as well called her. I was about four years old when she died in Butler, AL. She was a wonderful Christian lady and loved by all who knew her. I can assure you that everything she wrote was true. They were not living on a plantation. My great grandfather was a young physician just starting out when the war began. They lost all their children during the war except for Clementine. Is her story in your book?

  47. Wonderful story! I do wish she had continued on with her life’s story though. Wanted to read more about her from her pen.

  48. I truly enjoyed reading this story I’m not a reader but all the things you post catch my eye thank you so much

  49. Nice story and I was surprised she went to college in Verona Mississippi. I have passed where this college stood many times in Lee County Mississippi and was told of the old college that stood there.

  50. Very interesting. Wish I could find stories or journals by my own ancestors.

  51. How I would love to find some stories such as these on some of my families.

  52. Very interesting read. Thanks for sharing!

  53. Very interesting. Love first hand accounts. Wish we knew what happened to Annes, if she had a happy life after that. Amazing that those freed slaves seemed to have affection for their former enslavers. Love and forgiveness. Very powerful.

  54. I always enjoy Alabama Pioneers – fascinated by first hand accounts from those long ago days

  55. Lillian Stevens Young, Bill Young

  56. Glen Williams the little girl was from Butler.

    1. June thanks. An interesting little story, her perspective is one that we don’t know, for many hard to appreciate I’m sure.

  57. Fascinating perspective of a child during the War.

  58. What can be said? I was right there with the author. My Grandmother often talked about her family history during the Civil War. This writing brought back memories of those stories in what is now Chilton County…Cobbs and Shelby’s.

  59. Anyone who pretends to be offended by this is mistaken. These people and their lives deserve to be judged in accordance with the times and their lives to be painted against the canvas of the reality they existed in.
    Nothing in this is mean spirited or cruel. No person living today, of any race, is resposible for the ills of slavery that existed. None alive have been slaves and no others owned slaves.If we destroy history we all suffer unimaginable harm. Growing up in the 1950s in rural Georgia I saw many interactions between people that taught me many lessons. Some taught me how to treat others and as many taught me how I should never behave. If cruelty and unkindness are mere rumors how are we to know how to keep them far away from our lives?

  60. Such an interesting story from that time in our history!

  61. This was my grandmother.

  62. Dorothy Scofield i remember your grandmother. Is this a book would love to read it. Haven’t seen you in a while, Hope all is well with you.

  63. Want to read more about the Civil War? Read STUBBORN MEN AND
    PARCHED CORN about the 18th
    Georgia Volunteer infantry regiment written by B GENERAL

  64. What people today have to remember it was a different time and different standards but it is OUR history.

  65. Thank you for your post

  66. I would love to order this but the link opens to a jackpot winning.

  67. I’m not offended. It is our history, our life at the time and it should never be erased.

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